


A Dragon of Storms

by MagisterShiryu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Character Death, Gen, R Plus L Equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2020-11-27 13:53:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20949413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagisterShiryu/pseuds/MagisterShiryu
Summary: Jon Snow was destined to do great things, from the very conception of his birth. Raised in the constantly changing landscapes of Essos by a rebel stormlord, and taught by a quiet crannogman, he is torn between his terrible ancestry and his violent upbringing.In the lands of summer however, all is not well. A broken dragon fights to keep a torn country together, the lions conspire, the wolves snarl and mourn, and the young dragons have their own problems.Winter is coming, and beyond the wall, a king fights for his people.





	1. Chapter 1

A Dragon of Storms - Prologue

___

As Howland quietly surveyed the tower where Lyanna was kept, he felt some dread as he finally saw the glistening plate and white cloaks of the Kingsguard, who surveyed the only way forwards to the tower. They must have been forewarned - perhaps even by Ned’s former flame, or merely by the people around here of their arrival.

Discretion may have been imperative, but it was likely that Dayne had used his name as a way of letting him and his compatriots know of anything suspicious, and for better or for worse, a group of armed men was suspicious anywhere.

To be honest, the methods mattered little to the crannogman, what truly mattered was that the three were aware of their party’s presence in these parts. He honestly would have preferred discretely assassinating all three of them, or even merely sneaking past to save Lyanna, but it seemed as if Robert would be getting his wish of a fight.

His scouting done, Howland silently descended from his position on the rocks, thankful that his experiences in the trees of the Neck translated decently enough to mountainous desert. Ned’s party was near the bottom of the mountain, away from the various overhangs just in case for any old Dornish traps - set during the Conquest of Dorne or even by the Kingsguard, it did not truly matter. Howland personally knew that there were none, but his companions certainly did not, especially when they had set up camp.

Letting go of his hold on the little overhang, the young lord quietly landed in a roll, before walking to his compatriots, who seemed to be either annoyed, awed or merely smiling knowingly. Ned was fortunately enough doing the latter.

“Gods, Reed!” Robert exclaimed loudly, immediately rising from his seat on the red, rocky floor, to clap him on the back. “That was impressive - how did you learn to do it?”

“A lot of practice, Baratheon,” Howland replied, with a small smile rising as he saw the blue-eyed man grumble at the non-committal answer. He turned towards the expectant Lord of Winterfell, a far more grave expression on his face. “The Kingsguard are aware that we are here, but they seem to want a fight with us - sharpening swords and polishing plate armor being what you prepare to do when you wish to start leaving somewhere, of course.”  
  
Eddard seemed to briefly find it funny, from the slight quirk upwards, before his eyes narrowed again. The wolf seemed to want his packmate back, and Howland understood that feeling very well.  
  
“We’ll fucking kill the bastards, Ned,” Robert swore, his face darkening as the rebel stormlord seemed to briefly come alive at the prospect. “Every single one of them.”  
  
“I want my sister back more then I wish to kill these men,” Ned replied, coldness being briefly replaced with warmth… Before the cold man came back. “But I’ll put them down all the same. Gather the men.”  
  
Theo Wull, Martyn Cassel, Willam Dustin and Ser Mark Ryswell began to lift themselves from their places, each looking wary but ready, and Howland glanced towards the several stormlord knights that had volunteered to accompany Robert. Each one had fought with Ned and Robert on the battlefield, and they seemed loyal enough… But the crannogman couldn’t help but feel wary, let alone because he hadn’t truly talked to any of them to find out their true nature.  
  
His dreams had made sure that they were. A lone winter rose among the dead, the rising tide of the great black depths of the ocean, a white-eyed crow constantly adjusting and plotting, a broken stag wandering a great desert and a dragon with broken wings falling… It made little sense to Howland. He had never experienced green dreams to much extent - his wife, his Jyana, was the dreamer, not him.  
  
The crannogman shook his head, pulling himself from his thoughts. Worrying over his family and his dreams would get him killed - he had to be the fighter now. With that thought in mind, he followed his comrades up the mountain, itching to grab his trident. Ned probably wanted to negotiate, instead of merely fighting… But Howland wasn’t naïve. They would likely refuse, especially with Rhaegar having won the war. Damn Tywin to the deepest of the hells, he privately cursed.  
  
The Battle of the Trident still tasted bitter to his mouth - Robert had broken Rhaegar’s forces by brutalizing their leader, almost killing him in one on one combat… until Tywin crashed into their forces from the side, with five thousand armored cavalry.  
  
Over ten thousand northmen, stormlords, valemen and rivermen died that day - stomped by Lannister cavalry, or stabbed by Targaryen ground forces, and the Rebellion died on that day. For a brief moment, Howland felt a surge of pity for Rhaegar. His entire kingship would be shaped by the fact that Tywin Lannister had won him the throne, from the brink of death and defeat at the hands of Robert Baratheon, his own cousin.  
  
Let alone what happened in the aftermath… Jon Arryn didn’t deserve to die like that, stabbed to death by ‘his own men’. Everyone with half a brain knew that the Valemen loved the Old Falcon... It was lucky that Ned and Robert had escaped like they had, otherwise Howland was sure that they would have ended up assassinated as well.  
  
The crannogman tore himself from his thoughts when he and his companions gazed upon the tower, where Rhaegar had stashed away Lyanna. The Tower of Joy, it was called, but to Howland it looked more like the old ruins of Moat Cailin.  
  
The three kingsguard stood at their approach, gazing at them from the bottom of the tower. “The Usurper and the Wolf.” Ser Gerold, the White Bull said at their approach, hand on his sword.  
  
“Where the fuck is Lyanna?” Robert asked, pushing forward, with his fist tightly wound at the hilt of his warhammer.  
  
“Unavailable,” the White Bull answered.

“We’ll put you in the ground and give your head to Rhaegar,” Arthur Dayne stated to the Baratheon, his hand itching to Dawn. “May your future be short.”

“Yours will be even shorter,” Ned finally stated, a determined look finally landing on his cold features.

The fight broke out almost immediately and Howland watched as the Sword of the Morning danced between blades, Dawn easily finding its way into the throat of a stormlord. The Lord Commander wasn’t a slouch himself, handedly parrying away the three pronged attempts of an attack from Ned, Ethan and Roderick.

That left him and Whent, circling one another like wolves fighting over carrion. Howland struck almost immediately, lashing out with his trident, only for the knight to sidestep and grab it by the hilt. The crannogman took the opportunity to launch a throwing knife at the man’s arm, causing the Kingsguard to recoil backwards.

Howland didn’t have the chance to press his advantage - the knight pulled the trident with him and smashed the hilt into his jaw, cracking a few teeth, and breaking his jaw. The small man let go of his trident, immediately forced into narrowly backing away from a slash to the throat, followed by an attempted stab to the stomach.

The crannogman hastily lunged to grab the sword of the now-dead Ethan Wull, barely getting the time to parry the overhead blow that was coming to him. It was somewhat too heavy for him, but he’d have to make do.

Immediately crossing blades with the Whent, Howland pushed forward, kicking the man in the unarmored knee, immediately forcing the knight to kneel, forcing him to use his forearm and sword hand to push against him. Howland spat out blood in the man’s eyes, causing him to recoil, and immediately took the opportunity to stab him in the throat with Ethan’s sword.

The crannogman immediately fell backwards, staring upon the corpse of both his friends and his attempted killer. He prayed that they would find happiness after death, even the knight of Aerys. It was the only thing he could do.

He gazed upon the ensuing battle and found Robert Baratheon singlehandedly fighting the White Bull, angrily roaring with each blow he took or inflicted, whilst Arthur Dayne was like a torrent, a dancer of death and steel who was fighting off several men on his lonesome. It truly was like being in a battle between two forces, and Howland wasn’t sure if Robert could take on Dayne… None of them could, given how he had performed against Ser Oswell.  
  
The rebel stormlord brought his warhammer for the kill, smashing _ through _ the sword of the White Bull and caving his chest in. He immediately whirled on Howland, and for a brief moment, the crannogman felt terrified that in his bloodlust, he’d kill him. It was a ludicrous thought, but if you’d seen him… Covered in the blood of his enemies, blue eyes staring at him like a demon…  
  
Instead, the rebel grabbed Howland by the shoulder, barely containing his fury. “I heard Lyanna crying out in pain. Check it out, Reed.”  
  
Howland could only nod, and the man immediately turned around and roared a challenge to Arthur Dayne, charging forward to meet the last bastion of defense.  
  
The crannogman once more, prayed to the Old Gods. He didn’t know what he was praying for exactly, but he did pray.  
  
Moving into the Tower of Joy, and climbing those stairs felt like an eternity for Howland. Eventually, he pushed open the door to see Lyanna laying there, sheets drenched red in blood. Howland knew that she was dying - an instinct that the Gods had cursed him with.  
  
The man moved forward, to see the girl who had saved him so long ago, who had even become his friend, fading away. Her lidded eyes caught him, and some brief happiness and terror entered her voice. “Howland? You’re here… Where’s Ned?”  
  
“Fighting, my lady,” Howland said lowly, his jaw causing the words to slur out.  
  
“No, no! It wasn’t meant to be like this…” Lyanna cried, tears welling up in her eyes. “I didn’t want to be stuck here, Howland. Y-you have to believe me.”  
  
“I know, my lady,” the injured man stated quietly, holding her hand, feeling like his heart was being torn in two. “I know.”  
  
“I shouldn’t have gone with him,” the young girl said, her voice fading. “Promise me, Howl… Please. I don’t want him to be like his father. Please…”  
  
“I… I promise you, my lady,” Howland replied, tears welling up in his eyes as he felt her hands loosen… Lyanna Stark was dead.  
  
The midwife handed him a small baby, and Howland held it tightly to his chest, as tears loosened from his eyes. She wasn’t meant to die like that… The small man felt hatred for a brief moment. Towards who, he did not know, there were far too many targets to decide upon. But he couldn’t hate the boy in his arms.  
  
A roar of anguished pain tore through his senses, and Howland forced himself to stand. He felt a sense of terror, utterly unwilling to see another friend die today. He pushed open the doors to the tower to see Ned…  
  
Eddard Stark was dead as well now. Stabbed in the gut by Arthur Dayne, who had been beaten to death by Robert.  
  
Howland couldn’t stop the tears now. “Robert…” The crannogman said, forcing himself to move towards the kneeling giant, who was clutching Ned’s corpse. The red-eyed man stared up at him, crying wordlessly, and then he gazed upon the child.  
  
“She… She’s dead,” Robert muttered, utterly broken by the death of the wolves.  
  
Howland couldn’t reply to that, only hold the babe closer to him. He swallowed. “She wanted… She wanted us to save the boy, Robert… That was her dying wish.”  
  
Robert didn’t answer, standing up to his full height, standing over the sleeping babe. “His name is Jon Snow,” the man decided, utterly choked up. “It’s what Ned would have wanted.”  
  
Named after his foster father and the region of his sister... “Aye,” Howland said.  
  
And that was all he could say. Anything else… He was simply too tired for it. Tired from the war, the fighting… the death…  
  
All because of the madness of two men.  
  
Howland swore that he would not let the babe go down the path of his ancestors. By any means possible... He swore that on the Old Gods and the New.


	2. The Griffin

A Dragon of Storms - The Griffin   
___   
  
Jon hadn’t even believed it at first when he had been told. Rhaegar, the silver prince had won? He was allowed to come back home, despite his failure to kill Robert Baratheon? It was almost a miracle…    
  
Yet, the sight of King’s Landing sent trepidations down Jon’s stomach. It reminded him of the Battle of the Bells, where his failure was openly displayed to the world. He had wanted the glory of killing the rebel stormlord, but not the moniker of butcher… It seemed that Rhaegar and Tywin didn’t care for that.   
  
The city may not have been burnt to the ground, but the battle was recent. The butchery of the soldiers and smallfolk alike was still present, their bodies littering the streets. There were multiple houses that had to be rebuilt, and it seemed as if the Red Keep was the only part of the city that had been left untouched.   
  
And for a bad reason as well… Kingslayers were accursed, but betraying your vows? Twice so, in Jon’s eyes. Jaime Lannister would be cursed in the eyes of Westeros for his whole life, even with the intervention of Tywin Lannister.   
  
Jon urged his horse forwards once more, as the Red Keep came closer and closer to view. The main gate was open and Jon passed through with ease. It felt somewhat humiliating to be without an escort, but his return was sudden and abrupt.   
  
Manly Stokeworth, or at least, Jon guessed it was him by his coat of arms, was present in front of the steps to the Great Hall and Maegor’s Holdfast below, and seemed rather unhappy to be there. “The king has ordered me to accompany you to the small council’s chambers.”   
  
“Any reason why?” Jon asked, curiously.   
  
“They’re gonna be judging the Kingslayer, I think,” Manly replied as they walked down the steps. “And seeing about the rebels and what to do with them. But those are just rumours, my lord.”   
  
The formerly exiled lord nodded, knowing very well how those sort of things circulated around the Red Keep. He didn’t know how his expertise would help matters, but he’d serve his king in any way he could.   
  
The white cloak of Barristan Selmy looked almost ominous as he stood in front of the doors. He took a glance at his coat of arms before stepping to the side, duty almost etched into his face. It must have been hard to know that your brother-in-arms had betrayed his king in such a drastic way.   
  
“Lord Jon,” Rhaegar stated, sitting down at the head of the table with a walking stick by his side. His left side, Jon added mentally, feeling somewhat ashamed of himself. He could have stopped Robert before this had even happened. “I welcome you back to Westeros.”   
  
“My thanks, your Grace. I came as soon as it was told that you had need of me,” Jon formally declared, ignoring the slight titters of the grey rat, Pycelle. Tywin Lannister looked on stoically, but seemed slightly interested.   
  
“And you will be rewarded for it,” Rhaegar promised, as he motioned Jon to sit where the Master of Laws normally sat. “I need loyal men more than ever… The realm is divided, and we must start to consider methods to pacify it.”   
  
“I think we will need to name new members of the small council first, your Grace,” Tywin advised, rather obviously in Jon’s mind, about to position his family as various members. “We lack a Master of Coin, Master of Laws and Master of Whisperers.”    
  
“Lord Lucerys will keep his position?” Jon asked, raising an eyebrow. “His allegiance to Aerys was rather plain to see at court.”   
  
“He was still loyal to the crown, Jon,” Rhaegar stated, looking slightly contrite to admit it. “And he is still guarding my family in Dragonstone. I must reward loyalty, even if it was to my father.”   
  
“Might I suggest my brother as Master of Coin?” Tywin proposed, not even trying to be subtle about it. It was almost galling to Jon.   
  
“What about the Tyrells?” Jon countered, utterly unafraid of the glare that Tywin bored into him with. “They may not have been as instrumental as the Lannisters in winning this war, but they were still loyal to you, your Grace.”   
  
“The Tyrells do have Stannis and Renly Baratheon in their custody, your Grace,” Pycelle admitted, looking incredibly reluctant to have done so. “It seems after the victory on the Trident, they managed to besiege Storm’s End and take it for your Grace.”   
  
“Mace Tyrell for Master of Coin then,” Jon said, looking at Rhaegar who looked intrigued at the proposition. “The coin of the Tyrells and of the Hand will be more than enough to repair the city and more.”   
  
“Do you find Lord Jon’s proposal adequate, my Hand?” The King asked, raising an inquisitive eyebrow at the Lord of Casterly Rock.   
  
Tywin looked irritated, but more at Jon then at the King. “It is ultimately the right move. But I insist that one of my brothers should have a place here in King’s Landing.”   
  
“And they will, my lord Hand,” King Rhaegar stated. “For Master of Laws… I find the candidate obvious. Lord Connington has proven himself a valuable advisor right now, and a loyal one.”   
  
“Despite his failure at the Bells?” Lord Lannister retorted bluntly, almost making Jon snarl back at him. He contained himself at the sight of Rhaegar’s hand being raised pacifyingly in his direction.   
  
“The war is won, Tywin,” the silver king replied. “And we should all be rewarded for it, all of us who were loyal to the Crown. Do you have any rejections to this, Grand Maester Pycelle?”   
  
“No, I do not, your Grace,” the titttering grey rat said quickly, immediately bowing his head as the room turned towards him.    
  
“What about Master of Whisperers?” Jon asked, still feeling shocked at being… well rewarded at all. He had failed, just as Tywin had said, and yet… It almost didn’t make sense to Jon. He was almost directly responsible for Rhaegar’s current condition! Yet, he couldn’t show weakness right here. Maybe when he was alone with Rhaegar but… This was still a viper’s nest.   
  
“Varys is the only option,” Rhaegar admitted, looking incredibly contrite to admit it. “We cannot have him as an enemy - we just cannot.”   
  
Pycelle wrote it down as the silence droned on for a few seconds after that, no one willing to contradict the statement. Even Tywin, which surprised Jon somewhat.    
  
“With that out of the way… What about my son?” Tywin demanded, staring right at Rhaegar. “You promised me that you’d release Jaime from the Kingsguard if I sided with you, and yet he is in your dungeons.”   
  
“He killed his king and betrayed his vows,” Jon stated, causing the Hand to glare at him instead. “How does it look when his Grace forgives sins such as those? Four out of eight kingdoms are in revolt against the crown even now and have yet to be pacified, this will merely aggravate the situation.”   
  
“You will mind your tongue,” Tywin snapped, narrowing his eyes in anger.   
  
“Or what?” Jon retorted, glaring back just as angrily.    
  
“My lords!” Rhaegar sharply interrupted. “Let us gather the rest of the small council before we decide on a matter such as this. Jaime shall enter your custody, Lord Tywin, but I want him back here when we decide upon his fate.”   
  
“My thanks, your grace,” Tywin said with a small nod, even if he ultimately looked unhappy about it.   
  
There wasn’t much to do after that. It’d take a while for Mace Tyrell to return from the Stormlands, especially if the fat lord decided to bring a large retinue with him. Pycelle advised the king to prod the Lord of Highgarden for haste. The realm wasn’t going to wait a month for them to be organized after all…   
___   
  
Jon was unsurprised to find that his estimate of one month had actually managed to be surpassed by Lord Tyrell. It took him one and a half month to bring a retinue of fifty men, whilst the prisoners from the Siege of Storm’s End were brought over by the Redwyne Fleet.   
  
He was unsurprised to see that Stannis Baratheon and most of the guard of Storm’s End were sent to the Night’s Watch - they had betrayed their king to serve the Usurper, as Robert Baratheon was coming to be known by. He personally doubted that Robert had much ambition for the throne, given how... lax he was with his duties, but the name had stuck anyway. It had been used before, but only by royalists from Jon’s knowledge. Now it was common to call the rebel leader that.   
  
Not that it mattered much. Varys’ ‘little birds’ had been working overtime to find out where Eddard Stark and Robert Baratheon had disappeared to. Meanwhile, Catelyn Tully and her newborn son had fled to Winterfell with the help of the fleeing northman army, the Riverlands were tearing itself apart, and the Vale… The heir to the Eyrie was a two-year old boy named Harrold Hardying.    
  
That was all that needed to be said about the Vale to know what was happening there. The Stormlands… They had all been loyal to Robert by the time of the Battle of the Trident, and Jon had temporarily been named Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, with the mission to pacify the region.   
  
He had called for them to come to King’s Landing and bend the knee to King Rhaegar, but most had refused for some reason or another. When he was finished with his duties here, he would have to bring them to the knee by force, Jon knew. He prayed that it didn’t happen sooner rather than later.   
  
He was starting to have enough of war, even if it was necessary.   
  
“My little birds have informed me of Robert Baratheon and Eddard Stark’s whereabouts… They were last seen in the Prince’s Pass, my lord, but only Robert, a small man and a baby were seen leaving the Pass, going towards the nearest docks. Unfortunately, I do not know where they went.” Varys informed, his perfume wafting uncomfortably into Jon’s nose. He almost shivered at the ‘little birds’. Gods knew what he meant by those…   
  
“Why would they be around there?” Lord Mace asked, his own perfume going into Jon’s nose. At least it was somewhat more pleasant then the Spider’s…   
  
“Lyanna Stark…” the king stated ominously, looking furious for a brief moment. “Did your little birds view a tower in the distance?”   
  
“No, your grace,” the eunuch replied, looking almost apologetic. “A pyre was seen occurring however.”   
  
Jon took a glance around the various members and saw that Tywin had his jaw set tightly at the mention of the Stark girl, Lucerys looked intrigued and Barristan looked remorseful… Jon felt that the girl wasn’t worthy of Rhaegar, but she didn’t deserve to die.   
  
“Eddard Stark and Lyanna Stark are dead then,” Barristan determined, sadly. The man’s temporary position of Lord Commander was now permanent, Jon supposed. “So are my brothers of the Kingsguard then.”   
  
“It seems so,” Jon said, deciding to talk about a detail that the others hadn’t yet. “What about the babe? Does Robert have a prince as a hostage?”   
  
“A princess,” Rhaegar ground out, looking more and more aggravated, and less and less like the king that had decided on mercy for Renly Baratheon.   
  
“We should draft a letter to the Starks,” Mace said, for once saying something smart. “Telling them of the deaths of their lord and his sister... It’ll be an olive branch, as the Braavosi are fond of saying.”   
  
“Do it then,” King Rhaegar said, staring off into the distance, refusing to look at any of them.    
  
“What about the Vale and the Riverlands?” Lucerys asked, shaking his head almost imperceptibly at the king.    
  
“Put Harold Hardying under the custody of the crown until he grows of age,” Tywin stated. “We must put another Lord Paramount in the place of the Tullys. They’re traitors and unfit to rule anyway as seen by their lack of ability to stop the infighting.”   
  
“The Darrys are the strongest House that supported the crown,” Jon added, remembering the Battle of the Bells for a brief moment, and ignoring his dislike of Tywin for an even longer moment. “They should be rewarded for their service.”   
  
“The Mootons are richer however,” Lucerys reminded him.    
  
“Marry the two then,” Jon replied. “Marry a Mooton girl to the heir of House Darry or something of the like. Rally the two houses and sponsor them - it’s the solution that doesn’t end in the two tearing eachother apart for the Paramountcy.”   
  
“We’ll do that then,” the king said suddenly, turning towards them once more, as if nothing had ever happened. “Lord Ryman Darry, from my recollection is young and able, and Lord William Mooton has an unmarried young sister. As for the Vale, get Hardying to King’s Landing… However means possible.”

“What about my son?” Lord Tywin finally asked, his expression glowering at Jon as if daring him to interrupt.

He’d do it in a heartbeat but he remembered Rhaegar’s words a month and a half ago.

“In light of recent events… Lord Jon is correct. I cannot in good conscience let Jaime get off unscathed for his oathbreaking-“

“Then I resign,” Lord Tywin spat, throwing his badge on the table, almost instantly causing a commotion.

“Wait there, Tywin.” Rhaegar’s voice cut through the tension, commanding and threatening at the same time. “I wasn’t finished. Your son will redeem himself in the eyes of the gods and the crown by killing Robert and this man, and bring back my child to me. If and when he succeeds, he will leave the Kingsguard and return to you as your heir. If he needs any assistance, the crown will provide for it.”

Silence reigned as Tywin slowly turned around, his face unreadable even to Jon. “I am free to help him in any way possible?”

“Yes.” Rhaegar replied, just as stoically.

“Then I accept.” Tywin answered, as he sat down and put the badge back on his coat.

Jon for once, prayed. He prayed that his silver king had made the right choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This chapter is essentially to set up the various plotpoints of the future.
> 
> And JonCon will be a recurring POV character.
> 
> In a few chapters (or right after this one, depends on how I feel about how ‘settled’ this period is in terms of plot to establish) I’ll be doing a timeskip to when Jon is older and well, a character.
> 
> I hope this chapter was enjoyable however, and I hope even more that everyone was in character.


	3. The Chained Lion and The Lonely Wolf

A Dragon of Storms - The Chained Lion and The Lonely Wolf  
___   
  
Jaime stared at the wall of his room in Maegor’s Holdfast, waiting for the judgment of the lords and the argument that his father would likely have with them. Rhaegar had promised that he’d change things when he came back, but he hadn’t - the encounter with Robert had broken him in some way, he could tell.   
  
Jaime had almost admitted to the wildfire and pyromancers as soon as he saw the small council, but he couldn’t. They were all vipers, waiting to grab at whatever chance they could to grapple some fame or power - they would twist and turn what he’d say for their own purposes… They believed the tale of the opportunistic Kingsguard before they’d even seen him and that suited them just fine, not even daring to look past the Mad King to see the pyromancers.   
  
Jaime had made sure that they paid though. They pleaded with him for their life, trying to bribe him or begging for mercy. The lion never gave mercy to his prey, and he cut them down like the rest.

By the stomping sounds of footsteps near his chamber door, it was likely they had come to a decision… And his father wasn’t very happy about it. He didn’t know what his father expected honestly.   
  
“King Rhaegar has decided that you must redeem yourself,” Tywin declared, without even bothering with the formalities. It was almost comforting if it wasn’t _ utterly hilarious _ . “You must get his child with the Stark girl back, and I have been given free reign to aid you however I must.”   
  
“Fine,” Jaime answered, a cocky smile fitting far too easily onto his face. He was the Smiling Knight now, not the Sword of the Morning like he had thought he was. “How do you plan to assist me then?”

Lord Tywin shook him for a brief moment, looking rather irritated. “This isn’t a laughing matter, Jaime. You must kill Robert as well - Rhaegar wants him and his man dead, before you can bring back the child…”  
  
Jaime didn’t listen to the rest. They called him the Kingslayer to shame him, and now they were using him as an assassin. It should have made him feel angry, he supposed, but he couldn’t help but find it darkly humorous. He’d be a hero by killing a Baratheon, but he was a villain for killing a tyrant and saving an entire city.   
  
“Are you listening to me?” Tywin stated, narrowing his eyes for a brief moment.   
  
He nodded mutely, thinking briefly about how redemption likely wasn’t meant to feel so bitter… And how redemption seemed rather cheap these days. His father continued to talk, and he dully registered the fact that Cersei was getting married to Rhaegar as she had always wanted, and that when he got back, Tywin would be putting him to task.   
  
It seemed as if his entire family had won something from this. Even Tyrion, who’d be able to avoid their father’s gaze if Jaime was the heir once more… Everyone besides him it seemed.   
  
After all, what was the point of ‘cleansing his dishonor’ if he didn’t have any honor at the end of it?   
___   
  
Benjen had constantly feared whilst he’d been acting as ruler of Winterfell. News was slow to come to the North as it always was, but in that moment, when Ned was fighting down south to save their sister and bring justice for their brother and father… Those were when it felt like the longest.   
  
When news of the Trident came in, after months of nothing, Benjen knew that something wasn’t right. An instinctual fear dug into his bones as Maester Luwin, the recent replacement to Walys, read him the news, and Benjen was proven right.   
  
There would be no justice for his oldest brother and his father, the dishonor brought to his sister, and now his older brother had to run for his life, in fear of Tywin Lannister’s butchers. Benjen knew that he wouldn’t run for Winterfell however. He’d run for Lya, to rescue her from wherever Rhaegar had stashed her.   
  
And whilst all this was happening… Benjen was stuck here in Winterfell. Listening to the complaints of the smallfolk, judging criminals, sorting out taxes… He’d taken to the courtyard as of late, smashing his sword into dummies until his sword broke, and then his fists until they were bloody and unusable. The wolf’s blood, as his father would call it, but Benjen knew that it was just rage, remorse, or guilt, however Luwin wanted to put it as.   
  
The household of Winterfell always knew about his nighttime beatings to the dummies in the courtyard, but they said nothing. They didn’t judge him for his rage… And Benjen almost wanted them to. He didn’t deserve their respect or their patience - he had directly started the war, by helping his sister win those gods-forsaken jousts against those shithead squires. He hadn’t tried to disillusion her about Rhaegar’s good looks, he had just let her go and get enchanted like every other girl at Harrenhal.   
  
Almost a month after the news of the Trident, the army that Ned had brought to meet his bannermen at Moat Cailin, marched back to Winterfell. Brandon’s betrothed, the beautiful Catelyn Tully, was there, and so was her baby son… With Ned. Benjen felt almost elated for a brief moment. He wasn’t the last Stark in the North.   
  
He might’ve had red hair and blue eyes, but he was still a Stark, and he would let no one say otherwise.   
  
Catelyn on the other hand… It was obvious that she wasn’t used to the coldness and barrenness of the North. He tried to provide for her to the best of his ability, but he wouldn’t let himself do more than that. Ned would return at some point, he was sure of it, and then Benjen would be free of this torment. He would go to the Night’s Watch where he could forget about his part in the war, avoid facing his past… It was a coward’s way, Benjen knew, but at least it wouldn’t bring dishonor to his family. The Starks had always risen high in the Night’s Watch.   
  
But it seemed that the gods had it out for him. Maester Luwin quietly passed him a letter whilst he was in Ned’s solar, one marked with the symbol of the Targaryens. “Ned… Ned is dead… Lya…” Benjen muttered aloud, uncomprehending even as tears fell down his face.   
  
It… It wasn’t meant to be them. Lya with her smiles and laughs, her teasing… Ned, his serious visage breaking into a small quirk of his lips, the brief chuckles.   
  
He barely registered Catelyn Tully entering the room, and reading the letter, nor her quiet sobbing as she read that another of her betrothed had died because of the Targaryens.   
  
Remorse, regret and guilt tore through Benjen as he recognized that he was alone. His entire family besides his nephew were all dead. There weren’t even any bones to put into the crypts of Winterfell - just written words by the people responsible.   
  
Luwin gently directed the sobbing Lady Catelyn out of the room, leaving Benjen alone with his past and the present. He collapsed into the chair, realizing that he had to rule now. 

Ned’s babe couldn’t do it, and he couldn’t, no, _ wouldn’t _ let his brother’s son get usurped. The North needed a leader now more than ever, and he was the only one that could do so.   
  
Benjen clenched his fists, ignoring the blood that began to drip onto the floor. He’d make sure that Ned’s babe would become the heir that House Stark would need him to be. The boy would be just, pragmatic… He would be a wolf, regardless of his colouring, the deadliest wolf that Westeros would ever witness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: A far more character-focused chapter then I’m used to, and I’m rather nervous about this chapter in general, but I hope it was enjoyable.
> 
> Benjen and Jaime are going to be quite consequential characters, so this is their ‘introduction’ to the story.
> 
> The timeskip is arriving however, ladies and gentlemen, so be ready for that.


	4. The Chained Lion II

Jaime had finally understood something about the nature of this ‘mission for the crown’ as Connington had put it… He was essentially killing people for the possibility of them coming back and starting a war. Perhaps it was necessary for Robert, the biggest threat to the Targaryen dynasty since the Dance, but when does necessity end and paranoia begins?  
  
The knight wasn’t really been much of a philosopher, but he’d had more and more time to himself lately - mostly because the company of thugs like Lorch and Clegane, the quiet loathing of Lewyn or the stupidity of the men that Rhaegar and his father had hired, well… It wasn’t exactly as if there was a conversation to be had.   
  
At least the sailors sang on the trip... Jaime had enjoyed that, but unfortunately it seemed as if it was back to ordering around thugs and ignoring the glares of Lewyn, who seemed was only there to report back to Rhaegar, or, the more likely option, to die in order to let the annulment go through as planned.   
  
Robert had apparently managed to negotiate with the Prince of Pentos in order to let him stay at the manse, and the two were becoming fast friends. There was no word on the babe or the man that had accompanied him, which meant that either Robert had separated himself from the man and the babe and they were elsewhere, or… Well there were a lot of sellswords in Pentos, with some that likely wanted to fight under the Usurper, which had become romantic in Essos, whilst being a curse in Westeros.   
  
At least according to Varys, information that was now nearly a month old. It seemed that despite Rhaegar’s and his father’s best efforts, the tales had spread of Robert’s near victory on the Trident, and of how he had made Rhaegar into ‘The Broken Dragon’. It didn’t really matter much though - Rhaegar had won, and Robert had lost.   
  
And now Jaime was leading over twenty men to kill two men and take a babe… Based on information that was now nearly three months old. He had ordered Lorch and a few others to try and gather information on their whereabouts as soon as they had landed, and it seemed that Robert had departed Pentos, having made a surprising amount of friends if the various rumours were to be believed.   
  
Jaime was starting to find that perhaps it wasn’t Robert’s prowess in the arts of war that Rhaegar and his father should be fearing - it was his almost inexplicable ability to make friends with those who should be, by rights, his enemies. The Pentoshi likely didn’t want to risk losing trade with King’s Landing, yet it seemed as if Robert still managed to make friends with them.   
  
“Lannister,” Lewyn said curtly, pulling him from his thoughts. Jaime barely resisted the urge to snap at the man he used to admire. “Lorch and Clegane have supposedly found out where the Usurper is going.”   
  
“He hasn’t taken a ship towards Braavos or whatever?” Jaime replied, raising a dismissive eyebrow. Why should he be courteous to a man who disliked him, and worst of all, was a hypocrite?   
  
“No,” the Prince replied, with a scowl now. “He managed to make friends with a few sellswords, and has been riding in the Flatlands. It’s likely some sort of trap, but it’s also our best opportunity.”   
  
“Perhaps,” he replied, as he slid his sword into his scabbard and clambered onto his horse. He didn’t even wear a cloak nowadays, and it was almost… liberating. “So where are our lordly thugs, _ Ser _ .”   
  
It was almost too much fun pushing on his former brother’s buttons, but unfortunately, it seemed as if Lewyn had managed to obtain a resistance to his jabs and jibes, so he didn’t react beyond managing to scowl even deeper.   
  
Which was still impressive to Jaime, as he followed the Kingsguard towards the unsightly sight of Clegane, Amory and a motley band of men, standing around in the middle of these massive grasslands. At least he’d managed to keep them all from committing too many atrocities - there was only so much he could do for their smell, ugliness and general skullduggery.   
  
“Baratheon’s over by those hills with his men,” Clegane stated, with a small grunt. “There’s only five of them.”   
  
“How well-equipped?” Jaime asked, as he glanced at the somewhat loosely fitting leather armor and steel swords of his men.   
  
“Only the stormlord has any plate,” Lorch informed with a cold glint in his eyes that almost made Jaime shiver. It reminded him far too much of the Smiling Knight. “The sellswords only have leather or scaled armor, and they only have the one archer.”   
  
“And we have naught,” Lewyn replied scathingly, even as he lowered his visor, preparing to fight. “What shall we do then, Lannister?”   
  
“Charge them. We have cavalry, and it seems that only Robert has any, and we have more men.” Jaime replied, as he lowered his visor as well. “Let’s end this war, once and for all… For King Rhaegar!”   
  
“For King Rhaegar!” The men chanted, still believing in the broken king despite being sent to their deaths by that same man, hundreds of leagues from their home.   
  
Jaime didn’t let the thought remain for long in his head as he saw Robert bellow loudly, his plate armor shining brightly in the sun of Essos, his warhammer raised far above his head as the sellswords inched forward, their shields raised. This was the man that had almost overthrown the Targaryens, the shadow that was beginning to plague Rhaegar’s reign.   
  
The sound of hooves and the men charging forwards echoed in Jaime’s ears, the horse beneath him thundering forward with all of it’s might, the hill that Robert and his men were standing on, doing little to halt their progress.   
  
“To the right!” A soldier screamed, Jaime only catching a glimpse of twenty men, led by a small man with a trident before he refocused. Killing Robert would end the battle anyway.   
  
The man noticed him almost immediately, even as his sellswords met his men on the battlefield, the sound of steel clanging against steel ringing in his ears. Jaime’s destrier thundered forward, as he raised his sword to strike at Robert - the rebel stormlord roared in response, raising his warhammer and lashing out with a speed that was frightening, striking his horse, sending him crashing to the ground.   
  
Pain coursed through his body as he felt his sword tumble out of his hand. He desperately crawled away, even as his ribs screamed at him. He hastily stood, and forced himself to move out of the way of a sword blow from one of Robert’s sellswords, who looked far too young to be out here. Jaime hastily grabbed a longsword from one of the dead, throwing himself out of the way of a nearby arrow volley.   
  
He raised his sword to counter an overhead strike from the sellsword, lashing out with his fist to the boy’s throat, before taking the opportunity to stab him in the stomach, the smell of his fear wafting into his nose.   
  
The knight didn’t get the opportunity for respite however, as he was forced into a three on one duel, the three sellswords lunging with their swords at the chance to kill him. He managed to easily parry their attacks, feeling almost as if Arthur Dayne was guiding his sword, letting him slip his blade into a slash that slit two of his attacker’s throats. The third swordsman shat himself there and then, but Jaime had already stabbed him in the gut by then, so that might explain it.   
  
Jaime pushed the corpse off his sword with his foot, and found himself watching as Lewyn got outmaneuvered by a man wearing a shirt of bronze scales, who knocked out the Kingsguard with the butt of his trident. Robert stood over the corpse of Gregor Clegane, the Mountain’s caved in chest leaking blood onto the stormlord’s boots. Amory Lorch didn’t even survive for that long it seemed, and those that remained surrendered. The rest had either ran off or died. 

Jaime felt a blade lightly touch his throat and glanced to his right to see a Braavosi man casually train his sword on his throat. “I suppose this means that you surrender?” The man asked, his thick accent making him sound a bit too smug for Jaime’s tastes.  
  
“I could cut you down where you stand,” Jaime retorted, lifting his sword to the man’s gut, even as multiple swords began to point themselves at him. “Don’t even think for a second, Braavosi, that you are better than me.”   
  
“Just surrender, Lannister!” Robert bellowed, marching forward with a small limp - it seemed that he hadn’t gotten out of the battle unscathed. “Or I’ll cave your chest in just like the Mountain, and I doubt you want to die for nothing!”   
  
Jaime scowled for a brief moment, before letting his sword fall from his grasp. What was the point in resisting anyway? For all that his family had discarded him, he didn’t wish to die in these grasslands.   
  
“Put him in chains,” the man with the bronze shirt intoned, looking surprisingly commanding for such a small man. “We’ll see what the King of Westeros deems his Kingsguards to be worth.”

The knight let out a small cynical laugh, even as the sellswords bound him with steel and iron. “Ask my father, not Rhaegar, he’s the one that’ll decide my value...”  
  
The Braavosi from earlier, who didn’t seem cowed by his threats from earlier, chuckled. “You Westerosi are so… bizzare with how you operate things.”   
  
“That’s how things go, I’m afraid,” the small man stated, even as Robert began to banter with his fellow sellswords in the background. Jaime wasn’t particularly interested in that however. “Essos is just as unfamiliar to me as Westeros is to you.”   
  
“You will learn quickly, friend. The Breaker of Dragons already seems to have a grasp of how things operate in these lands.” The Braavosi replied.   
  
“The Breaker of Dragons?” Jaime dared to ask, wondering how they’d react to a questioning prisoner.   
  
The bronze-shirted man and the water dancer glanced among themselves for a brief moment before the Braavosi answered. “The tales of the Trident have spread even to us in Essos, thanks to the gossip of merchants and cheesemongers who travel to your Sunset Kingdoms. They tell of a rebel breaking the new king of Westeros, turning an able warrior into a cripple within a single blow of his hammer, who ran when his fellows were killed.”

“I’m surprised that they’re not more… negative,” Jaime replied, deciding to be a tad more tactful than he usually was. “Robert lost after all.”

“That’s the romantic version of the tale, my good fellow. Others prefer that one, and some prefer the brutal tale of the coward that ran away from his fate.” The sellsword answered, bluntly, seemingly uncaring for the consequences of insulting his leader. His fellow man only looked more grim at what his comrade had said, seemingly knowing of it already. 

“There are tales of you too, Lannister,” the small man stated, his grim face barely budging at the glare that the knight was sending him. “Killing your king… Dirty but necessary business.” 

“My name is Jaime,” he snarled, even as the small man’s words registered in his mind. Dirty but necessary?   
  
The blonde noticed with some grim amusement that it was the first time he’d ever heard those words regarding his killing of the Mad King, and it was from some exiled sellsword. Everyone else had silently or vocally condemned the action… 

All people who’d directly benefited from the death of the Mad King. Rhaegar rose to the throne without opposition, his father got his revenge for the insults across the years… Only Varys and perhaps Lord Velaryon could say that they hadn’t benefitted from the death of Aerys - they had risen during his reign, and had stayed on even after it.  
  
He didn’t know what to think about that.   
  
“Howland!” Robert bellowed, as they drew to a stop near the camp at the top of the hill. “How’s the Lannister been behaving?”   
  
“He’s been quiet since I talked about his killing of the Mad King,” the man, now called Howland replied.   
  
“I’m still here,” Jaime dryly intoned, causing the two men to turn to him.   
  
Robert frowned, seemingly reminded by the mention of his oathbreaking. Jaime mentally prepared himself for what most did when they knew of what he had done.   
  
“Good job with that one, Lannister. The fucker should have died a long time ago.” The rebel stated seriously. “”Burning people to death… That’s when his reign should have ended.”   
  
“He did far worse than that,” Jaime said suddenly, the outburst surprising even him… He just couldn’t keep lying about it, even if he was confessing to exiles. “Queen Rhaella… Whenever he burned a man, he would try and get her with a child. He’d hurt her, biting, scratching… The works… And guess what? As Kingsguards, we are sworn to protect the king, and thus must let him do as he wishes… Even when his wife begins crying and screaming from the pain he’s inflicting on her.”   
  
“By the gods,” Howland swore, looking utterly horrified. Robert practically looked ill, his face rapidly paling at the thought.   
  
Jaime let out a broken laugh, that cracked when it rose from his throat. How was it that these men seemed more horrified by what Aerys had done to Rhaella then her own son? “That isn’t even the worst of it. The alchemists whispered into his ear about wildfire, and he decided that if anyone tried to take King’s Landing, they’d rule over the ashes. He ordered his pyromancers to plant wildfire across the city… When Rhaegar and Tywin came to besiege King’s Landing, he put his plan into the works, refusing to bow even to those who had won the war for him… He intended to kill over half a million people just to refuse his son and his rival a victory… I couldn’t just let him do it, could I? Even with my oaths, even with what I knew they’d condemn me as…”   
  
“No… No, Lannister. You should be a hero, not a villain sent to kill me and my men.” Robert replied, after a moment of stunned silence, conviction in his eyes and his voice surprisingly quiet. “Do you wish to return to Westeros? Answer me that.”   
  
“I… I don’t know.” Jaime replied, even as it dawned on him what he was actually saying. Did he truly wish to abandon his family? Tyrion and his tumbling, Gerion and his stories… He didn’t know. What he did know however, was that he wasn’t being judged right now. He hadn’t yet dishonored himself in the eyes of these men.   
  
“The choice is yours. You have the night to think about what you want to do, Lannister.” Robert stated, a serious look in his eye.   
  
Jaime slumped down, any fight or will that he had, evaporated in his body, even as Robert walked away.   
  
“You don’t have to join us, if you decide to stay,” Howland quietly stated, causing the knight to turn his head towards the bronze scales wearing man. “I’ve learned rather quickly in my time around here, that this is a land where barely anyone cares for the name you have, at least for exiles.”   
  
“What else can I do? All my life, I’ve trained to fight.” Jaime asked, defeatedly.   
  
“We’re still young, Ser. We have time to learn new crafts,” the man replied, even as he removed the chains around Jaime’s legs and hands.   
  
“So why haven’t you?” The knight pondered, absently rubbing his wrists.   
  
Howland looked at him for a brief moment, looking both forlorn yet determined. “I have a duty, that’s why. I long to wish to be with my wife and child, as all men do, but until I’m sure… I’m sure of the boy’s character, I cannot do that.”   
  
The boy? Jaime asked himself, even as the dots connected in his head. “You’re talking about Rhaegar’s child, aren’t you?”   
  
“Aye,” Howland answered, honesty and bluntness all inscribed in his features. “He’ll grow up knowing of all of the sins committed by his father and mother, and the fates of his uncles and grandfathers, and that his birth was one of the factors that started a war that tore a country in two. Not the only one, nor the biggest factor, perhaps, but enough of one to weigh on a mind.”   
  
“So you’ll be leaving the company soon,” Jaime guessed. “Raise him as your own son whilst your own child is raised with only your memory?”   
  
“An equal trade,” Howland said, some bitterness rising in his voice, yet resignation was inscribed in his face. “Robert will hopefully live long enough for Rhaegar to turn his focus on him, whilst the boy gets to live his first years as peacefully as possible… I hope.”   
  
“A risky plan all for one child,” Jaime quietly noted.   
  
“All children deserve a happy upbringing,” the small man answered. “And nobody deserves to suffer because of the sins of their family.”   
  
“It seems that you’re the only one who believes that,” the knight replied, briefly remembering the Rains of Castamere for a second.   
  
“No… I wasn’t,” Howland replied, looking genuinely pained for a moment there. “You’re free to roam around the camp, Ser - Syloro will show you to your quarters.”   
  
The Braavosi from earlier quietly let out a small chuckle, as he approached and Howland walked away. “How did you manage to convince them to release you, my good fellow?”   
  
“A small miracle,” Jaime bluntly informed the sellsword, causing his chuckle to only get deeper and longer.   
  
“Ah, I’ll take it. I’ve seen your skills with a blade, you’ll be a good sparring partner. Far better then most of these layabouts the Breaker has managed to charm.” Syloro stated, as they walked through the camp, most of the sellswords telling one joke or another, and simply ignoring Jaime’s presence. It felt almost… relaxing.   
  
“He didn’t even hire them?” Jaime asked, raising an eyebrow. 

Syloro looked at him as if he’d suddenly grown three heads, before shaking his head. “Why do you think that despite his reputation he merely has thirty men to his command? He didn’t have that much money to his name when he came across the seas, my friend.”

“So why did you join? If Robert isn’t paying you much…” The blonde asked, raising a curious eyebrow.  
  
The sellsword went silent for a moment before answering. “Because I saw an opportunity. The Breaker is going to be the new Bittersteel, I can tell. The Sunset Kingdoms still turmoil at the Broken Dragon’s victory, do they not?”   
  
“Over half the kingdom was still being pacified when I had left,” Jaime answered, curiously. “Do you think that Robert’ll obtain recruits from across the seas?”   
  
“All he needs to do is to make a call for it,” Syloro stated, with a surprising amount of confidence about the validity of this plan. “Establish himself as a worthy sellsword captain, and they’ll flock for the chance to follow the man who broke a King.”   
  
“Or to kill that man,” Jaime pointed out, with a small smirk. “So where do you think you fit into that idea?”   
  
“As a skilled killer,” Syloro replied, somewhat too quickly for his tastes. “Well I managed to get you, didn’t I?”   
  
“Har-har,” he sarcastically retorted, as they reached the small barracks that had been established. “Catching a man off-guard counts as a victory for you?”   
  
“Of course,” the sellsword said, with a small grin, shameless about his lack of honor. “Your bed is next to mine… Jaime, right?”   
  
“Call me whatever you want,” he grunted, as he sat down on the wooden thing that was supposedly a bed. If he stayed in Essos, he certainly was going to miss quilted sheets and all of those things… The knight glanced at whatever Syloro was doing, finding him setting out a deck of cards, ones that he’d never seen before. “Whatever are you doing?”   
  
“Oh these?” The Braavosi stated, raising his cards once more. “Trying out a game that a man from Yi Ti taught me about. Want to try and win against me, _ Ser _ ?”   
  
His eyes briefly narrowed in irritation, before he relented. He couldn’t exactly sit around all day, could he? “Alright, alright… Show me your YiTish game - we both know I’ll beat you with ease anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I’m utterly unsure about ending it here, but my good friend, Kingadent basically told me ‘for the love of all that is holy, just end it’. Now that is one phrase that should not be used out of context, that’s for sure.
> 
> Updates are likely going to be slow in the upcoming months, I’m afraid. School is starting to heat up, I’m planning on getting a part-time job, and all of that juicy IRL stuff, so… Yeah. Just a forewarning, in case the spaces between chapters become even longer then this one.
> 
> This is my main creative project though, mostly because the scope of what I plan to do with this baby, is kinda immense. Especially considering what I’ve written in the past… But that’s getting into spoiler territory, so I’ll end the author’s note here.


	5. The Watcher

A Dragon of Storms - The Watcher   
____   
  
“I must say,” Jaime stated, the sound muffled somewhat by a half-chewed apple. “I did not anticipate that much of a response from the Kingdoms at the news of Robert’s new company.”    
  
Howland nodded silently in agreement, the sight from the hill giving them a look on the sizeable camp. The tents varied from the most lavacious of tents to the smallest of them, and spread across the hillside like a lake. A true sight to behold but it left him more worried than anything else.    
  
He knew far too well what it took to feed an entire army, when he’d been placed in command of commandeering food from smallfolk in the Riverlands, whilst on the way to the Stoney Sept. It… hadn’t been pleasant.

“The end was far too bitter for the ones who lost,” he said soberly, the battle at the Tower still lingering on in his mind. It should have been Ned that survived that forsaken place, not him nor Robert. “Those who aren’t going to Robert are still festering their wounds, waiting for the next time they can soothe their hurt pride, or try to fill the gap in their hearts at those they lost.”   
  
Jaime hummed a faint sound of assent. “Westeros is truly fucked to Yi Ti and back, isn’t it?”   
  
Howland doubted he’d have put it that way himself, but it certainly rang true enough. “Let us hope that it is not irreversible, if only for those we love who still dwell there.”   
  
The young knight grimly nodded, a frown settling down on his rapidly tanning features, the sunlight casting them harshly. The crannogman watched with mild curiosity as the knight finished chewing his apple, before dropping it to the ground and letting it roll down the hill. The little amusements were all they had until battle came, he supposed.   
  
The distinctive sound of boots stomping onto the ground caused Howland to turn around to see Robert angrily stomping towards them, red-faced and his fists clenched. For a brief moment, he saw Jaime ready himself for a fight, only for the man proceeded to merely slide in the empty space between the two men, his fierce blue eyes glaring at the horizon.    
  
“Robert…?” Howland inquired, worry rising in his voice. For all his faults, the stormlander wasn’t one to get enraged for no reason. 

“The bastards took Renly hostage,” Robert said darkly, after a few seconds of steaming quietly to himself. “Stannis went to the Wall instead of bending the knee… I knew he had some steel to him.”   
  
The crannogman privately thought that it was unlikely that Stannis had even been given the option to bend the knee, but kept it to himself. He’d learned from his friend’s drunken rambling how much they’d clashed, and he didn’t wish to make the nostalgic memory sour. It was unlikely that Robert would ever meet his brothers again, at least if the boy wasn’t ready to be a king.   
  
“The recent arrivals, I’ll guess,” Jaime said, far more calmly then he’d seemed before. The stormlord nodded, still scowling as if he wanted to strangle something. He might’ve had, for all Howland knew.

“They won’t kill him,” Howland stated, hoping to give his friend some comfort on the matter. 

To his surprise, Robert nodded, turning to look at him. “They won’t. The dragon fucker and his Hand are far too clever for that.”

A heavy silence drifted onto the three men, bound together by things beyond their control, and further bound together by their duties and desires. It saddened Howland somewhat, to know that in another life, perhaps, neither of them would be in this situation, in lands far from anything they knew.   
  
“I’m surprised that any westermen even showed,” Jaime said, changing the subject as undeftly as could be. It was a welcome change from the silence however, he’d admit.

“They have courage... Or your father placed them here,” the crannogman stated cautiously, glancing at the young knight who seemed to be simultaneously offended and understanding. A strange mixture, but one that he would readily accept over outright anger. “Either to kill Robert, or to take you back.”   
  
Jaime nodded curtly, asking in an accusatory tone, “Is that why you asked Syloro to keep an eye on them?”

Howland offered naught but an unapologetic shrug. He preferred erring on the side of caution, especially where Tywin Lannister may be involved. “He’s loyal enough and he knows how to make friends easily.”   
  
“The men that fought with me on the Trident, I am sure of their loyalty, Lannister.” Robert said quietly, a focused look in his eye. “They died for me, and survived with me, and followed me when they heard of me even out in these distant lands… I cannot say the same for those ones.”   
  
The knight swallowed, his green eyes looking back down onto the distinct camp of the westermen and back at Robert, before a steely glint entered his eyes. “We need all the men we can get… We only number in the low hundreds, and we aren’t even getting any money due to our lack of contracts.”   
  
“Which is why I only asked him to keep an eye on the soldiers, Jaime.” Howland quietly said, bringing the attention of both Westerosi onto him. “It’s getting more and more unsafe and unsafe by the day - these men need to feel some coin in their pockets, and I fear that they’re going to turn their focus onto… More dubious means of obtaining it.”   
  
The unsaid statement hung in the air, leaving the three men silent once more with only their thoughts to accompany them. The harsh sun and the light airy breeze reminded Howland how far he was from home… From his Jyana and their child. He didn’t even know what his child looked like… Or if he had a daughter or a son.   
  
Howland had sworn himself to not put them in danger, and it was honestly the sole reason he hadn’t gone back already. Greywater Watch may have never been conquered in the myths and legends of the North, but… Those were myths and legends, taught by word of mouth and text written several millennia after those events occurred, or barely comprehensible runic inscriptions on stone and bark.    
  
The Isle of Faces and the Green Men had merely made him realize how strong the magic of the Old Gods truly was, after being left to simply grow across thousands of years… And the things they said had turned out to be false.

Jaime subtly shifted, standing from his leaned position, a determined look in his eyes, immediately pulling him from his mystical thoughts. “Then we send envoys to Lys, Myr and Tyrosh, make our name by fighting in the Disputed Lands for the one who gives us the most amount of money. We might only number in the hundreds, like I said earlier, but we’re being led by the Breaker, the man who almost shattered a dynasty… At least in their minds. We’re quite the catch, are we not?”   
  
“Perhaps,” the soldier allowed, even as he cynically thought up another reason how betrayal could occur. But Howland knew that risks had to be taken, especially with how turbulent the sands of Essos could be. “It’s as good of an idea as any other I can think of.”   
  
Robert glanced at the two of them, before nodding, seemingly much calmer now. “I’ll send the bastards the envoys myself… Looks better coming from me, doesn’t it?”   
  
Howland looked at his unrefined tunic and scruffy boots, before glancing at the dirty shirt of Jaime, who hadn’t bothered cleaning it since his spar with Syloro, and then at Robert who, for all his faults, looked surprisingly well-kept in his loosely fitting attire.    
  
“Does it even need to be said?” Jaime snarked, rather abrasively saying what he was thinking.    
  
Robert let out a small chuckle, a welcome change from the anger and rage that he’d exhibited earlier. “All the wenches have to do is clean the two of you up, and you’d be more lordly than I ever was.”   
  
“They still probably wouldn’t take kindly to anyone besides ‘the Breaker’ I’d think,” Howland commented dryly, idly grabbing the flask of water on the table and sipping it.    
  
“Well they can go bugger themselves then,” Robert rudely announced, as he grabbed a chair and moved it towards the table, and pushed all of the nourishment to the side. “Can someone get me something to write with and some paper?”   
  
“It’s right behind you,” Jaime idly replied, as the warrior turned around to grab the necessary equipment, grumbling something about getting servants as soon as he could. Jaime shook his head, a small smirk playing on his lips, before walking off with nary a goodbye, leaving the two men alone on top of the hill.   
  
“You know that I’ll need to depart soon,” the soldier said, raising an eyebrow at the sudden stop of his friend. “The babe… I know we paid that woman a lot of money to keep him safe, but I can’t let him be raised like that.”   
  
“True.” Robert acknowledged, sounding torn between anger and sadness, his teeth set tightly against one another.   
  
Howland scowled, immediately recognizing what his friend was feeling. “The boy is not his father.”   
  
“I know… I… I dream of them, Howland,” the stormlord admitted, his haunted blue eyes finally rising from the letter he was trying to write. “Ned, Lyanna… Jon. All those that died because of my actions, because of my rebellion. They all condemn me, saying that I have no right to be alive when they aren’t… And they’re right.”   
  
“We cannot change the past. We can only move forward, and hope for the best.” Howland replied, the words feeling completely hollow. The world couldn’t change the past… But it never forgot it.   
  
Robert laughed brokenly for a second, before sobering up. “Jon and Hoster… They wanted to crown me, if we won. My laughable blood claim was superior to anyone else’s, and I could far more quickly gather men in case of a war. Can you imagine me with a crown? I’d be worse at it then Rhaegar… If we had won, it should’ve been Ned. He would have ruled well, far better then anyone.”   
  
“He wouldn’t have wanted to rule from the Iron Throne,” he answered sadly, remembering a conversation long ago as the northern army marched down the Kingsroad. “He wanted to go back to the North. Bury those he’d lost, try to start a new family. If he’d been forced to stay south… I fear the Iron Throne would have broken him in some way.”   
  
“That damnable thing breaks all of those who sits upon it… And yet we conspire to put Lyanna’s child onto it.” The warrior said regretfully, reaching for the flask of ale and taking a long gulp of it. “What does that make us, Howland?”   
  
“I…” Howland started to say, before shutting his mouth. He didn’t have an answer that make their plans seem any more moral, let alone justified beyond selfish desire. If they succeeded, they’d be condemning a young man to a life of strife that he possibly couldn’t handle. “I do not know.”   
  
“You know we cannot go back as long as Rhaegar and his spawn rule… He’ll hunt us down like dogs, and execute us as an example to all rebels.” Robert stated, as he took another long gulp of his ale, before grabbing another flask.   
  
Howland closed his eyes, as two conflicting desires tore themselves within him. The desire to be an honest man, and the desire to be back with his family. All of them manifesting within a single, innocent babe.   
  
“...I’ll be leaving at dawn,” the crannogman said coldly, turning around and leaving the tent, leaving him alone with only his thoughts to occupy him, and his prayers to console him.    
  
_Lyanna… Please forgive me for what I’m about to do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: This chapter is going to be the last one before the timeskip, I just want to confirm that.
> 
> I want to hear your thoughts about the last five chapters of this ‘Prologue Arc’, and how it feels in its entirety in terms of plot progression, character arcs, et cetera. 
> 
> Until then… I’ll see you all later.


	6. The Sellsword Prince

A Dragon of Storms - The Sellsword Prince  
____  
  
Jon awoke with a small gasp of terror. Another nightmare, he thought, gingerly lifting himself from his sizable cot. Glancing around his sparsely decorated tent, he found naught but his weapons and a table that had a distinctly empty flask on it.  
  
The prince’s gaze eventually went to his bed and the beautiful woman that was currently on it, before silently cursing. Jaime is going to tease him mercilessly and Howland would have his hide for this, he knew, as he realized what exactly had happened last night. Robert would be so proud of him… Godsdamn that man. 

“Awake already, your grace?” The woman asked, her voice tired yet still melodious. Amara, he recognized, one of the singers of the troupe that had wandered into their camp, scarce a day before the battle had started. The one thing that could have even gotten him to drink in the first place… He truly was an idiot at times.  
  
“An early bird catches the worm, my lady Amara,” he lied, plastering a small smile onto his face, noting how she brightened at the sound of her name.  
  
“My lady Amara,” she repeated with a smirk, pushing aside her black hair. “You’re way too courteous for your own good, your grace.”  
  
“What can I say?” Jon shrugged, a far more natural smile blossoming onto his face. He was beginning to remember why he had tried to charm her in the first place. “Knights seem to think that courtesy is the way to a woman’s heart."

"Fortunately for your grace, I am one of those women," she commented, looking him over like he was a piece of particularly sumptuous meat, and she, a starving wolf. "And with that sort of prize..."

The prince couldn't help but awkwardly stare, utterly blindsided to this sort of blunt forwardness. She let out a seemingly genuine laugh at his reaction, poking him in the abdomen, instantly causing him to react, putting all of his 'charm' into it. "Just as I was mesmerized with your beautiful singing voice and magnificent green eyes, my fair lady." 

The singer merely grinned. "If you say so, your grace."

Jon couldn't help but think that he'd lost this battle, even as they settled into companionable silence, Amara even settling her head onto his shoulder as they sat together.

"If you'll pardon the bluntness, you're surprisingly eloquent for a singer of a troupe," he asked curiously. "Is there a story there?" 

"A rather short and bland one, I'm afraid, your grace," Amara replied honestly. "Had a rich merchant for a father, and he'd decided that in order for you types to take me and my brothers seriously, that we should speak properly from birth."

"Hm," Jon hummed absently, lost in thought. "What… What were they like? Your family?" 

"Like most, I suppose," she answered briefly, turning to look at him curiously. "Why are you asking?" 

"Nothing," he deflected quickly, hoping that she wouldn't press the issue. "Just curiosity."

"If you say so, your grace," Amara said with what sounded like understanding, leaning her head against his shoulder once more. 

After a brief moment, Jon muttered quietly, "just call me Jon, please."

The slight brush of her hair against his shoulder, that felt distinctly like a nod, let the prince relax. It felt… Nice, he thought to himself. He couldn't quite understand what he was feeling, but he certainly didn't want it to end. 

Eventually a helmeted head poked through the flaps of the tent, looking extremely embarrassed, staring at the two of them for a moment before seemingly regaining his faculties. “Uh, your grace, Ser Jaime wanted to remind you of, er…”  
  
“Training sessions,” Jon completed for him, feeling some sort of pity for this poor sap. Not many were exempt from Jaime’s jokes, least of all those he didn’t respect. “Thank you for the reminder, my good ser, I’ll be up shortly. Feel free to go now.”

“Ah! Thank you, your grace,” the young guard stated, quickly poking his head back out, his cheeks utterly red as he seemingly ran away, if his footfalls were any indication.  
  
The prince merely shook his head, even as Amara began to let out a stifled giggle. “Are they always like that?” She asked, as she began to calm down.

“Most of the time,” Jon replied, somewhat exasperatedly, even as he began to get dressed. “Though what you saw there is nothing compared to how women and men alike swoon at Jaime and Robert.”  
  
“At least competition isn’t that fierce with you,” the singer replied, with an impish grin.  
  
“There won’t be one anymore, methinks.” The prince stated bluntly, liking how surprised and happy she looked. He’d definitely won this round, he thought, as he grabbed his weapons. “I shall see you later, I hope?”  
  
“Oh, of course, _Jon_,” Amara responded, batting her eyelashes at him as she emphasized his name in an extremely suggestive tone.  
  
Jon began to indignantly sputter and she let out a laugh, he decided that his best option was to retreat. That woman was going to be the end of him, he thought to himself. He was surprisingly enough, comfortable with such a thought.  
  
Pushing open the flaps of the tent and moving towards their makeshift training yard, which was naught more than a bunch of straw dummies and a large open space surrounded by a shoddy wooden fence, Jon saw Jaime casually standing there, waiting for him, a wide smirk on his face.  
  
“Don’t you even say it,” he stated immediately, after hopping over the fence.  
  
“You lasted all of ten drinks, pup,” Jaime teased, leaning back. “Robert lost so much money that day, a true tragedy.”  
  
“Not as much money that you lost to me over how many women Robert’s bedded over his lifetime,” Jon retorted, feeling a grin rise on his face as he saw his mentor take on an innocent, forgetful look.  
  
“I don’t remember anything about that.” The knight denied fervently, even as his own smile betrayed him. “Enough about the mistakes of the past - shall we get to it, or are we to prattle like old men?”  
  
“I was waiting for you,” the brown-haired boy replied jokingly. “I know that you are getting slow at your old age and I am still in the prime of my life at six-and-ten namedays, but by the gods...”  
  
“And yet this old man can still put you on your arse any day of the week,” Jaime said, smirking all the while, readying his sword.  
  
Jon shook his head exasperatedly. Only Robert and Howland, as far as he knew, were put anywhere near Jaime’s level in fighting skill, and all three of them were famous for their exploits. Bypassing the Black Walls of Volantis in order to enforce an elephant-dominated regime, to halt their conquests, breaking Khal Drogo in the forests of Qohor and giving him his first and sole defeat even up until this day… There were many more that Jon could think of, and were all feats that he doubted he’d ever be able to top.  
  
As their swords met, clanging loudly in the morning sun, a loud voice interrupted their spar almost instantly. Jon quickly ducked underneath the blow that had followed, before turning to the voice. It was Mors Crowfood, who’d been one of the first northmen to leave their homeland to join the company. Jon thought it was for vengeance, for the sons that had been lost in the Trident against the forces of Tywin Lannister and… his father, but Jaime had told him when he’d asked, that for all of their posturing, the northmen were here for the same reason as the essosi, the stormlanders or anyone else and that was for the gold.  
  
“Howland Reed and Robert want to see you, lad,” Mors stated, with a warm smile that turned glacial when his attention turned towards his mentor. “You too, ser.”  
  
Jaime’s previously happy gaze turned sarcastic and venomous almost in an instant. “My thanks for the courtesy, Crowfood.”  
  
Jon merely watched on uncomfortably, as he walked behind them. All of this tension and his family was the main centerpiece that connected it all. The one that even gave him the title of Prince.  
  
There were times that he dreamt of merely being a Stark or a Targaryen. He pondered being raised in King’s Landing or Winterfell, his relationships with his cousins or siblings, and if he would have even been the same person… It was all in his imagination, he knew, but… Sometimes, they were the sweetest of all of his dreams.  
  
As they arrived at the war tent, the largest and grandest of all of them in the camp, where the Breakers planned all of their strategies and tactics, Jon felt a certain nervousness rise within him. He’d only come into here a few times across his life, but it had always felt intimidating to be in the same space where several of the grandest stories that he’d heard of in his life had been planned in.  
  
“It’s alright, Jon,” Jaime whispered in his ear, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. “It’s only Robert and Howland in there. They just want to see you, remember?”  
  
“I know, I know.” The prince replied, breathing in deeply. 

“Now just get in there, and try not to piss yourself.” His mentor whispered once more, causing Jon to shoot an affronted glare at the man, which merely widened Jaime’s smirk.  
  
Pushing open the flaps, the prince saw Robert smile widely at the sight of him, even as Howland already looked slightly tired. “Jon! So how was last night?” The stormlord asked, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
Jon immediately flushed red, despite his attempt to remain collected, causing Robert to laugh uproariously. “You truly do sometimes remind me of him, I swear… But enough reminiscing, I do have a task for you.”  
  
“What is it?” The prince asked, watching as Howland stood, looking at him forlornly for whatever reason. “I’m ready, for whatever you have to throw at me.”  
  
“I hope so,” Howland stated quietly, as the man who raised him as a child, was supplanted by the co-leader of the Breakers. “You are to take command of a force of two thousand men, and take the fight to the other sellsword companies under the employ of Tyrosh. Lys wants the playing field, so to speak, be as equal as possible, between us and the Golden Company, and the hiring of other companies by the Tyroshi is somewhat disquieting for them.”  
  
“So why aren’t they hiring more companies themselves?” Jon asked, feeling slightly lightheaded.   
  
“They are,” Jaime replied, casually leaning backwards in his seat. “You’re just one of many, trying to bring balance to this endless fight we’ve gotten ourselves into.”  
  
Jon looked around the room, at each of these men that had a direct hand in raising him, and took a deep breath. He was ready for this… If he couldn’t handle this, he had no business being a claimant to his father’s throne. “I can do that.”  
  
“If your mother and uncle could see you right now, Jon,” Robert said, looking away from him, towards the ghosts that followed him everywhere. “I know they’d be proud of you.”  
  
“I hope so,” the prince quietly replied, as the weight of two thousand men and his responsibilities towards them began to slowly settle onto him. “When do I depart with my men?”  
  
“Tomorrow at first light,” Howland replied, showing naught on his face. Jon couldn’t really remember a time in his childhood when he had, if he was being honest.  
  
Jon merely nodded before leaving the tent, where it seemed as if Jaime was whispering harshly to Howland for whatever reason, but he didn’t really care enough to listen. All he hoped for now, was that he did his duty as a commander and leader well enough to return to the people he cared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: I have finally begun writing this beast again, and I hope the chapter was up to standards that I’ve previously set.
> 
> This is very much a chapter that sets up Jon as a protagonist and main character, but don’t worry… He ain’t the only character around. I hope you enjoyed him however, and don’t find him too whiny or whatever.
> 
> Just a forewarning however, I will not be able to keep up my pace from the first few chapters. It was in rather special circumstances that those happened. However, I do hope to keep updating this story. This story was never abandoned, I merely decided to… Take my time with it. Plan it out a tad more than I usually do.


	7. The Sellsword Prince II

A Dragon of Storms - The Sellsword Prince II   
____   
  
Jon raised his hand, halting the advance of the force that he’d brought with him, which numbered just over a hundred men. They’d been moving slowly across the forests and plains of the Disputed Lands towards their goal, and Jon was confident that he’d found it.

A camp loomed below them, easily far larger than the one the rest of his men had set up, with a variety of tents and open spaces. Surrounded by rivers and hills, Jon knew that he was fortunate that he hadn’t gone for the attack that Mors Crowfood had been urging him to pursue.   
  
“Mira, my lady,” Jon said cautiously, as he looked at the enemy’s hold. “Did you find any ways into their hold that aren’t too well guarded?”   
  
“I did, my Prince,” the short woman replied dutifully, leaning casually against her trident that was firmly implanted into the ground, pointing to the east and west sides of the camp. “I’ve marked each location where we can sneak in with chalk.”   
  
“Good work.” Jon praised, giving her an appreciative nod. “Ready your men as soon as you can. We attack in half an hour.”   
  
“Want me to get the knight and the pretty one over here?” Mira inquired, referring rather obliquely to Ser Horpe and Saanro, the commanders that he’d decided to bring on this mission.   
  
“Yes,” the prince affirmed, absently fiddling with a silver bracelet on his arm. By the gods, he hoped that Amara was doing okay wherever she was.    
  
“Your grace?” Ser Richard asked, seemingly ready for battle already. “Has that swamp dweller told you where we can get into this godsforsaken camp?”   
  
“She has, ser.” Jon replied, pushing aside his indignation for a moment. “I want you to gather forty men and follow her lead. She’ll take you to where you’ll be able to get in.”   
  
“As you wish, your grace.” The knight answered somewhat more stiffly then before, seemingly offended by the prospect of having to take orders from a crannogman, even if it was only for a bit. He’d have to get used to it before long, Jon thought. He wanted the most capable at his side, not the ones who had the highest status.    
  
“What about me, Prince Jon?” Saanro asked bluntly, his strong Volantene accent shining through.    
  
“I’m putting you in charge of the catapults and archers,” Jon ordered, trusting that the Volantene would be able to do this task without complaint. He’d been among the most dependable of those who’d chosen to come with him, but still… It never hurt to be careful.   
  
“It shall be done.” Saanro the Unbroken replied, bowing his head with nary a complaint. “May the Lord of Light smile on you, Prince Jon.”   
  
Jon merely nodded, before preparing himself, grabbing his sword from his tent and absently swinging it once and twice to check the balance before putting it in the sheathe on his hip. He was ready for this… He had to be. People were depending on him to complete this task.   
  
The prince moved towards the soldiers that had gathered to follow him into battle, and he briefly hoped that none of them would get hurt… Even if he knew damn well that was an impossible wish.   
  
“With me!” He commanded firmly, as over forty lightly armored soldiers quickly obeyed, hastening to join him, feeling increasingly nervous as they descended down the hill. “Spread out and move as quietly and as fast as you can and look for the chalk signs.”   
  
The silence of the night was slowly but surely replaced by the sounds of sleeping men and the footsteps of his companions, as his forty men slowly divided themselves into groups of five, all with unlit torches and flint and steel in hands.   
  
Jon felt a certain anxiety rise in him as he approached the camp, spying Mira’s chalk sign almost immediately, quietly and slowly tearing off loose planks and motioning his men in.    
  
“Now.” The prince ordered, raising his hand and clenching his fist, immediately feeling his heart constrict. He really was doing this, wasn’t he?   
  
His men immediately lit their torches and began to sprint, dousing the tents in flame.    
  
“FIRE! SOMEONE’S STARTED A FIRE!” A random voice began to shout, as the fires began to spread, the flames licking the dry grass.   
  
It was chaos in an instant as Saanro launched his catapults, flaming barrels coursing through the air towards the camp, a loud crash echoing in Jon’s ears as they smashed against the hard ground. The flames were uncontrollable now, not caring what it touched.   
  
“INTRUDERS!” Someone yelled in front of him, a mismatched set of hastily thrown on armor and a steel mace marching towards him. Jon was faster however, and his sword entered his throat before he could spout any more words.   
  
Pulling his blade out of the man’s throat, Jon marched forwards, a haze of chaos and blood slowly forming in front of his very eyes. “RETREAT!” He bellowed, grabbing the shoulder of one of his men, who’d just finished killing one of the sellswords with a meaty thud of his mace. “Find the rest of your soldiers and get to our camp - now!”   
  
“Right on, your grace,” the soldier quickly replied, dropping his torch immediately.   
  
Jon couldn’t help but stare for a moment at the carnage that his plan had wreaked, as he began to retreat, with most of his men in tow. The flames had engulfed the entire camp, and he heard the cries and screams as men and women were burned alive, and many others died to the smoke, hacking at their lungs.   
  
Jon didn’t feel like a prince or a commander at that point… He felt like a butcher. He had won the battle and most of his men had made it out with nary a scratch, yet Jon couldn’t help but feel as if he had failed.   
  
He realized as he stumbled towards his tent, after hours of marching back to their camp, congratulations and grim praise echoing in his ears like thunder, that he genuinely felt hatred at that moment. Not towards the Company of the Cat, his men or even the various commanders at his disposal… He felt it towards himself.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: As always, I am unsure about battle scenes, so feel free to give criticism and comments. As for any long term plans… I got plans. Trust me on that one. Especially for Jon and several others.
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed the chapter, I had best get to writing the next one.


End file.
